


With Each Gift

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Family Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early days, Dorian had on occasion thought of rubbing his choice of bedmate in his father's face. Even then the thought had made him feel too petty to be worth the brief satisfaction afforded.</p><p>He had thought nothing of the sort for some time. He had thought, perhaps, that the matter was in the hands of the Maker. He had thought, aggressively: well, and why should I be ashamed? What would it matter if he knew? He had let Varric publish his atrocious book. <em>I don't want more trouble for you, Sparkler.</em> A genuine offer, but it'd made him stubborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Each Gift

**Author's Note:**

> The anon who has visited a lot of dorian/bull people on tumblr sent me the question: _how do you think dorian would react to finding out that his family knows about him and iron bull?_
> 
> I wrote a fic instead of answering with meta. And kind of went off at a tangent while I was at it.

Maevaris had tried to send a warning, but the roads were unpredictable so late in the year, and in the event, the thing came with the same courier as the missive from his father, both part of a large and slightly damp bundle of papers which had accumulated during the weeks the mountain passes had been blocked with snow. 

Her letter gave every impression of urgency: the slightly careless imprint of her ring to seal it, and the fact that she had not taken the time to write a clean copy, but sent her first dashed original, mistakes crossed through with uneven pen-strokes. His father's, on the other hand, was heavily deliberate, with every possible formality observed. An official document accompanied it.

Dorian considered them both, balanced on top of a pile of minor periodicals and professional correspondence which could certainly wait. Maevaris first, then.

He frowned, reading it. _I have no wish to sway you from your course, but I'd rather you didn't hear of this first when you are disowned for it. I must say I hope you're very happy, and I find the situation delightful, except in this unfortunate detail._ A kind thought, certainly.

Picking up the letter from his father, his hands shook a little, and he felt no little resentment over the fact. He had made it clear to his father that he did not care a bit for his good opinion. He had perhaps not made it equally clear to himself.

Magister Pavus remained. _I would ask you if these stories are true, but I must tell you that at this point it makes not the slightest difference. I feel it best for all of us to formalise the state of affairs which we both know to be true: that you find yourself unwilling to fulfill your duties as a member of this house. My sorrow that this should be the case is considerable_ —here Dorian did laugh, a harsh and bitter thing— _but I must accept that you have made your choice, and I have made mine accordingly._

He breathed out slowly, and lay the letter down again, and thought of Qarinus. The ancient olive grove on the Pavus estate, the thick twisted stems of the trees and the heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he walked between them. The relief of cool darkness as he stepped into the house again, the smooth coloured mosaics under his feet. As a child he had traced them, asked questions about them until his mother was driven to distraction. 

There it was, then: he would not walk those halls or those hills again.

He did not realise how long he had sat in thought until the Bull's huge hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he found that he was in darkness, the sun sinking fiery behind the mountains outside the window and his lamp still unlit. 

"Alright there?" the Bull asked. "You didn't come to dinner. Figured maybe you'd lost track of time in some book, but—aw, crap." 

This last came as Dorian looked up at him, attempting to summon a smile.

He shrugged. "I find myself in need of a new way to introduce myself. The name of Pavus is no longer my own. There it is." He gestured at the letters, and waited in silence as the Bull read through them.

"Mae seems to think it's about us," the Bull said finally. His voice was carefully neutral.

"Maevaris," Dorian said, "is a very intelligent woman."

"Your father doesn't mention it."

"He wouldn't," Dorian said, and it was now that his voice threatened to break. "He couldn't possibly disown me for my sexual or romantic inclinations, however much he means it—that would be tantamount to admitting they existed, you know."

He winced, but the Bull was good enough not to push the issue of _romantic inclinations._ It was a subject they had edged around for the better part of a year now; their arrangement felt stable, felt nothing like friends who fucked and even less like being used. But it was undiscussed.

In the early days, Dorian had on occasion thought of rubbing his choice of bedmate in his father's face. Even then the thought had made him feel too petty to be worth the brief satisfaction afforded.

He had thought nothing of the sort for some time. He had thought, perhaps, that the matter was in the hands of the Maker. He had thought, aggressively: well, and why should I be ashamed? What would it matter if he knew? He had let Varric publish his atrocious book. _I don't want more trouble for you, Sparkler._ A genuine offer, but it'd made him stubborn.

Some of these thoughts he had once shared with the Bull while unconscionably drunk. The Bull had listened, and held him, and not passed judgement, because he didn't, not over that sort of thing. When he'd lapsed into silence, the Bull had kissed him breathless, and he had woken fully clothed in the Bull's bed, the imprint of the Bull's body still warm beside him.

The Bull did not pass judgement now either. He said, "you wait a moment, I'll get someone to bring food."

"Get them to bring wine instead," Dorian said, laughing somewhat damply, and the Bull stroked his hair and let him have his tears in silence. He did call for food, but for wine as well, because he was considerate and not, contrary to the old barbs that Dorian had loved to throw, any kind of savage brute at all.

"You know," Dorian said, a little later, "I thought I was beyond caring about anything of this sort, but I find that it—it matters more than I expected."

His birthright was long gone in any case, but he could not have used it now if he had it. He had agreed to stay with the Inquisition, reluctant to leave a place where he could be himself, but he had not thought—he had always imagined that he could, one day, return.

"Yeah," the Bull said. "Yeah, I know."

He didn't say that it was fine, or that it would feel better in the morning, or any of the things that would have let Dorian fly into a rage. Once he would have resented that lack of provocation, as angry as he had been. Now he simply found himself tired, and quite nearly adrift.

The Bull's arms held him anchored.

"There have been stories for some time," he said, closing his eyes and leaning against the Bull's broad chest, the bulk of the Bull's stomach comforting against his side. "but I suppose the book really did the trick. It's been strictly forbidden in the Imperium, so of course it's very popular. Magister Pavus always did hate to be made a fool of."

The Bull waited. He breathed evenly, a gentle rise and fall. Dorian found his own breathing steadying to match.

"Fuck him," Dorian said, the words subdued. He took one more deep breath, calm and slow, following the Bull's lead. "I owe him nothing, and now it's official. I'm home."

"There you are," the Bull said. "You want to set something on fire, or you want me to take you to bed?"

Dorian laughed again, and this time he managed to sound a little brighter, although the strange flat feeling that had followed him through the evening was not yet gone. 

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "If you put in enough effort, we can probably manage both."


End file.
